Did I mention that when my Contessa visits, I am not allowed to fondle the favorite blue angora sweater she wears? No nose in the cleavage; no lick behind the ear.

I am forced to sit behind bars and enjoy only the odor of the day she’s had, tracing her path in an olfactory fashion: the macelleria on her fingers, smoke from the corner bar downwind, a pause to test, with a single touch of her fingernail, the freshness of the day’s catch displayed in Campo di Fiori.

It’s like smelling porchetta atop the impossibility of a tall table. My stomach turns as the ineviability of denial sinks in. And I hate the postman more.

The wag in my tail fades into a low poise. Dreams of a warm hug and tasty treat vanish as my Contessa dabs one eye, bids me “Ciao”, and slips through the door to freedom.